


Like Frank Morris

by NUKANotUserKnownAs



Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: 2nd Person, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:55:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21813283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NUKANotUserKnownAs/pseuds/NUKANotUserKnownAs
Summary: If you exploit the aglo float glitch and prevent roomcache from being reloaded, you can move arbitrary entities.
Relationships: Slurper/Cage Prop
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Like Frank Morris

Your memory is a hoarder's closet, a hot wet womb full of junk, impossibly small and crowded with endless dioramas in no order, film with no subject, silly, gross, weirdly dismal, form nor void, stinking strangely just underneath itself.

You who are hardly in your own memories wash yourself in a basin in a room that is dark, with chainlink for walls, past which is even greater darkness. Your skin is opalescent and scarred and your head is an oblate smooth thing which tapers and flares. At the end, there's teeth. 

\--Crawling, being beaten, shot, hit with a fire axe, crawling, stomped on until one's head broke, crawling, having a metal pipe swung into the small of one's back so that one's legs went hot and dead. Crawling, always crawling.

A red thing in a cage, or perhaps the cage was its skin, called you to it one hour in the eternal evening that warms this park, and you crawled across the grates to meet it, and it asked you a few questions. And then, of course, you got shot fifteen times and kicked into a ravine.

“Why are you crawling around like that?”

You didn't have a good answer, so the next time, you approached it on your arms and feet, loping forward in a simian kind of way. Now there was cloth on the red thing- thick greasy canvas.

“Can you get me a health drink? It's just over there. You know, get yourself one, too.” 

You had to open your clubbed fists to push the buttons and pick them up, but it was worth it. You sat and drank, and the red thing talked to you, and it barely hurt when later you were cut almost totally in half with a sword.

And the balloon in the cage asked you for other things, which you brought-- a bowl, a bottle, a chipped sapphire in a necklace, a book, a small knife and a large sword. Sword leaned back on your shoulder, now tall enough that you could've looked your friend in the eyes if it had any, you asked it why you couldn't just... Well, maybe the creature that kept killing you could be asked to stop, discouraged, perhaps warded off with the sword. “Maybe we could bribe her,” it said bitterly. “Offer her free parking and a seat on the town council.”

It did none of these things, and instead told you to follow her, past the trees and scrub, upstairs in a small house, carefully, crawling again, with the sword and sapphire and everything else tied up in a bundle on your back, holding a door open with the deftest of maneuvers (because if it closed, it could open up on anywhere), waiting, waiting, waiting in the scent of tissue paper and mildew for her to finish arranging chessmen on a wall, committing their places to memory and replacing them after she left, hiding below her line of sight at the edge of the park with its strangely solid floor, climbing a pipe to get to the top of the train (you swung over with an awful crash that brought her running, but by then, you were well hidden). To make it through the office park, you bribed a tall one (earlier, you thought you were becoming one of them, but your head retains its shape) to run out in front of her and get cut down so you could sneak to the opposite corner and press yourself tightly to it as, at last, she went into the wiring closet, the final and most important station.

In the closet, with the red seal under a forest of wires, you put the bowl down, took out the knife, removed the bottle's stopper, and said the words you'd heard. Now, even though it's dark past the fences, and there's a terrible rushing all around that suggests injuries rather more permanent than anything she could inflict, the parking lot past the open door is bright, and outside--

You step out, close the door. The wind stops. 

\--it's hardly even foggy.


End file.
